The Assassin's Wife

by Blakey, Moonyeen

  Softly she began to laugh, an eerie ripple of sound that made the hairs upon my neck rise.

  “My Lady, you must be calm.”

  Eleanor’s head tilted back, one hand at her mouth, her eyes fixed on the statue. Awful laughter bubbled from her mouth, the uncontrollable laughter of the mad.

  “Lady Eleanor! Lady Eleanor!” I called in vain. The wild creature laughed and wept and shook its yellow head so it seemed a living candle dancing before the Holy Virgin.

  “My sweet Ned is King of England!”

  “You mustn’t speak so loud. It’s a secret. Remember your promise? It’s a secret.”

  In the refectory Sister Agatha read from the scriptures. Her nasal tones droned among clanking jaws and slurping mouths. The warm stench of gathered womankind filled the chamber. No one looked up but Sister Ursula’s eyes followed me as we slid into our places. I chewed on gristle, trying not to inhale the greasy smell from the bowl. Opposite, Eleanor sat silent at last. Her translucent hand toyed with food but nothing touched the rose-bud mouth. Beside me Sister Theresa’s stomach rumbled and I kept my eyes hooded to shut out the jellied wobble of her whiskered jowls. Rebellious as ever I prayed for a miracle to bring escape.

  “You must guard her more carefully.” Sister Ursula’s eyes fixed me with stony disapproval.

  “I try. But sometimes she slips away from me.”

  “You must watch her at all times. She’s becoming more and more—” She paused to watch the sisters file out of the refectory, “distracted. Her behaviour causes comment, particularly among the younger sisters. You understand my meaning?”

  “Yes, Sister Ursula.” I forced an acquiescent tone. What use to argue?

  Eleanor was quite mad. She spoke rarely, but when she did, she hinted at an intimacy with the king that provoked scandalised speculation amongst the nuns; she danced and laughed during prayers; she screamed in the night and ran after shadows. And I’d assumed a gaoler’s role.

  Of course I watched her, followed her, attempted to contain her in her cell, but she regularly eluded me. Sometimes I left her with Sister Matthew in the infirmary to steal moments of solitude.

  Leaving the refectory I walked with Eleanor in the convent-grounds. How beautiful the gardens appeared in the sunlight. All the nuns returned to their cells for the hour of private contemplation.

  Sitting on the bench, I pointed out to Eleanor a pair of brilliant butterflies flirting among the foxgloves. How I envied them their freedom. What did it matter they only lived for a day? One day of utter joy was better than years spent in this prison. Wistfully, I thought of the man who haunted my dreams and whose blue eyes regarded me with obvious desire. What might I give for one hour in his arms?

  Secrets, I thought closing my eyes for a moment against the sun’s rays, are all I have left of the world outside the convent walls. Throats have been cut for speaking ill of the king, and doubtless Brother Thomas paid dearly for knowing too much. Did he dare to speak out? I’m the only other guardian of that secret, I thought. The realisation startled me awake.

  When Eleanor’s dead I’ll leave this place. But weak, sickly Eleanor could live years and years. Overcome with guilt, I looked for my charge. The gardens lay empty. Eleanor had gone.

  Outside the chapel door, I hesitated, suddenly faint and nauseous. Perhaps I’d taken a fever from sitting in the sun? Leaning on the warm stonework, I closed my eyes against a spinning sensation, swallowing hard. Then drawing a deep breath, I pushed against the door and stepped inside. The chapel beckoned cool and empty. Before the Virgin the candles flickered. The scent of incense hung upon the air.

  As my eyes adjusted to the darkness I raised my head at last and saw the horror. Eleanor’s body swung from a beam above the Virgin’s image. She’d hanged herself with her girdle.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Shock drove me to sudden, reckless flight.

  “You’ve got to help me.”

  Sister Clement’s body writhed but I pressed my hand hard over her mouth. Her teeth nibbled against my palm. Her left arm flailed but when I thrust the dagger to her throat, hissing into her ear, “Don’t struggle. I’ll cut you if I have to,” she stopped. Pressing the blade so the point bit into soft flesh— just enough to draw a bead of blood— I gloated with my own power. Tension fluttered in her like a trapped bird, the pent-up scream desperate for release. Sweat trickled between my breasts. Until I knew she wouldn’t make a sound I kept the pressure on her mouth.

  “You’ve got to help me escape.”

  The eyes pleaded. Bird-like whistles wheezed in her throat. Her lips mumbled against my hand.

  “No noise.” I touched the point of the dagger to her cheek so from the corner of her eye she might catch a glimpse of it. “I need to get away. Something terrible’s happened.”

  She struggled to shake her head from side to side.

  “Keep still. Listen and remember what I say. What’ll happen if they find out you sneaked off from your prayers to sleep in here?” Fear made her rigid. “Believe me, I’ll tell them if they catch me. Now, I’m going to let go, but if you utter one squeak I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, blinking tears.

  Trembling in every limb, I stood upright, relaxing my grip. “Now come with me.”

  Paralysed with fear, her eyes followed the dagger, but I grabbed her wrist, pulling her into the empty corridor. Around us, the whispered breathing of the sisterhood at prayer continued. Nothing must disturb their devotions. My hold upon her arm grew vicious.

  Once outside the building, Clement found her voice. “What have you done?”

  Poor Clement. She possessed a timid, kindly nature and I meant to use this weakness to my own advantage. I couldn’t have been more fortunate to find her sleeping in the kitchen when she should have been at prayer in her cell.

  “Who has the keys to the cemetery gate?”

  “Sister Ursula.” Clement’s eyes rolled wild with fear.

  “No one else?”

  “I think Sister Theresa has some keys.”

  “You must get them for me.”

  “How?”

  “Don’t whimper. Go and ask her for them after prayers. Say the carter’s daughter’s arrived to collect refuse. Tell her anything as long as you get those keys. I’ll hide in the cemetery—I can hardly go out the main gates, can I?”

  “Suppose she comes with me?”

  “She won’t,” I said, with a confidence I didn’t feel. Sister Theresa, a garrulous old busy-body, would welcome an opportunity to gossip. “Tell her the carter’s daughter said there’s plague in the town. That’ll keep her away. Now go, and try to look confused.”

  The last instruction proved unnecessary for Clement rarely looked anything else. She’d a reputation for stupidity which fuelled much teasing among the spiteful sisterhood.

  I watched her scuttle back into the building and then ran towards the burial ground. Crouching among the tombs, I prayed, not for the speeding of the departed souls to heaven, but for the saving of my own.

  * * * * *

  An hour or so before Matins the birds began calling to one another.

  Dew-drenched, I shivered beneath the hedge peering into the cobalt shadows of the new day. Thin streaks of light appeared between earth and sky. Sister Anthony called the morning chorus a “magnificent anthem to our Lord,” but at this moment, it sounded like a cacophony that would rouse the hunters and direct them to my hiding place.

  I’d spent an uncomfortable night huddled up against this prickly tangle. Though exhausted I couldn’t soothe my restless mind. Every creak jerked me into wakefulness. Now, as I continued on my journey, my temples pounded with a thousand hammers. My eyes seemed full of grit as if I’d stood too close at the forge.

  Dear Clement—she’d not only acquired the keys but she’d thought to bring me an old cloak, and the bread I’d eaten last night. I hoped Sister Ursula wouldn’t punish her too harshly.

  A cart rumbled alongside.
/>   “Where are you bound for, young mistress?” Watery blue eyes squinted in the sunlight. “You seem to be in an almighty hurry.”

  “I’m looking for the London road.” I replied, panting for breath.

  The wheels creaked to a stop and the occupants of the cart, a grizzled farmer and his mousy family, helped me aboard. Gratefully, I settled myself between the flabby-bodied wife and two goggle-eyed boys.

  “We can set you on your way a piece.” The wife eyed my old-fashioned dress. “It’s not safe to wander abroad alone in these unsettled times. Have you family in the city?” She smiled as if encouraging confidence.

  “I can offer you nothing but thanks.” I decided to risk a blunt approach. “I’m in a hurry. I’ve run away from my master and want to get as far away as I can.”

  The farmer gasped, swivelling his head like an owl’s. The squat wife raised her eyebrows.

  “He was cruel to me,” I said before they could ask. “He beat me often.”

  I drew back my sleeves to show some old bruises. How plausible I sounded! “But when he tried to—” Darting a nod at the two young boys, I eyed the woman as if to share some dreadful secret.

  “You poor child.” She reached out a moist, friendly hand. “How you’ve suffered.”

  The farmer sniffed and I wondered if I should further embellish my tale.

  “Where’s your home?”

  I shook my head, compressing my lips as if distressed. “My father’s dead.” Genuine tears welled up. The wife’s ugly features melted with pity. “And my mother’s re-married.” At least that part was true, I thought, ashamed at gulling honest folk. “Her new husband threw me out and my sweetheart’s forsaken me. I’ve an aunt in London.”

  “It’s a mighty way to London.” The woman and her two boys stared at me, mouths slack with wonder. She looked inquiringly at her husband, but he shook his head.

  “I can take you to the London Road a piece.” He rubbed his fist against his nose as if embarrassed. “Maybe you’ll find someone to take you onward when we get to the cross-roads.”

  Thanking them for their kindness, I wondered what they’d say if they knew I’d just escaped from a convent. Guiltily, I remembered how I’d prayed for a miracle to release me from the place. Had I caused Eleanor’s death? Fat Marion once told us as children to be careful of our wishes. But I couldn’t regret my freedom.

  * * * * *

  The track wound on, rough and dusty. For weeks no rain had fallen. Vegetation rose parched and spindly. A heavy, clinging scent of pollen sucked away the air. My stomach gurgled. I’d eaten little since yesterday. Licking my lips I tasted salt. The day promised to be hot. I must find water.

  Intense and glowing as if just taken from the forge, the sky took on the colour of shimmering steel. Not far off the road I found a shallow pool. Scooping up the brackish water greedily, I drank my fill, then casting some over my head, allowed it to trickle through my hair and down my neck. The fierce heat made me drowsy. Crawling into the shade of a huge tree, I bundled up my cloak and lay down. Around me stillness gathered. No breeze stirred the leaves; no bird sang; no insect hummed. I closed my eyes against the fractured glare that pierced the branches.

  A clap of thunder woke me to awful darkness. A brooding tension, taut as a bowstring, quivered in the air. Ominous thunder rolled. Momentarily, I shrank against the tree-trunk pressing my face into its bark but the uncanny atmosphere drove me to action.

  Wrapping my cloak around my head and shoulders, I ran towards the road, desperate for some sign of human life. Lightning tore across the clouds in a jagged cut briefly illuminating the countryside in silver. Forced to a standstill, I cowered under another ear-bursting crack. Its echo scarce died away before another shaft of lightning blinded me.

  Fat drops of rain began to fall. Plopping and bouncing, increasing in speed and strength, the deluge quickly turned me into a sodden creature. Blundering ahead, I barely made out the wagons clustered like circled sheep against the road-side. Some stocky horses huddled against a hedge, draggled heads hung in stubborn misery.

  Boldly, I approached the wagons.

  Faces loomed before me; faces young and old; faces neither friendly nor hostile; dark, foreign faces, openly curious.

  An old woman leaned down. Her eyes gleamed smoky-dark, her smile enigmatic. She seemed somehow familiar. When she reached out a scrawny arm, I took it without a second thought. For her years she proved surprisingly strong. She hoisted me up into the wagon and those around her drew back a little to allow me space. I sat a moment, dripping and panting while the dark faces watched as if I were a rare wild beast which might at any moment spring upon one of them and tear him to pieces.

  Lightning flashed. Under the wagon, an old, grey dog, crouched against the wheel, began to whine. I murmured my thanks, but the woman touched my arm so softly the words died into silence. So we sat, mute and immobile, while the rain fell in long needles and pools of water gathered in the grass.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” she said at last. “Welcome.”

  Behind her, I heard a collective sigh and knew some important step had just been taken.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  How did Mara recognise in me the strange ability Brother Brian called the Sight? I hadn’t been an hour in her company before she asked me about it. While rain tumbled from an angry sky I sat in the shelter of the wagon recalling the days of my childhood, telling her how I’d come to realise I was different from others, an outsider in my own village. And Mara listened. Something in her silence encouraged confidence and I saw myself back in the chapel after Mass and eight years old again.

  “My mother sent me to the priest for telling lies. But they weren’t lies. I saw spirits ever since I can remember. I thought everyone saw them. Only Brother Brian believed me, and he told me I’d been chosen for some special purpose—” Tears choked off my words for I’d had no news of the priest since I’d written my letter. In my mind I saw suddenly the dust kicked by cantering hooves, the jouncing leather saddle-bag by the rider’s heels.

  Mara’s hand touched my wrist, light as the brush of a leaf. “The messenger travels a long road,” she said, as if she could see my thoughts. “But there are many stopping places and many hands exchange the contents of his pouch. There are eyes greedy to read, but take heart, for the letter will reach its destination.”

  “But how will he find me?” I cried out. “How will he know where I am?”

  “How does the bird know the way to fly home?” Her eyes stared deep into mine, so my fright ebbed away under their calm, liquid scrutiny. “Trust is the key to understanding. Now you must trust me to show you the way to interpret your Sight. We’ll begin tomorrow.”

  * * * * *

  At Mara’s feet, the candle-flame cast a flickering light over the smooth surface of the crystal. In it, darts of fire trembled blue, green and purple. I screwed up my eyes in an effort to search its core. For a while it seemed shadows moved, but when I realised this was only a trick of reflected light I shook my head in frustration.

  “It’s not the way I see.”

  Mara laughed huskily. Looking up, her dark eyes sparkled with amusement as if watching a babe trying to stand for the first time.

  “There’s no way better than another,” she said in her deep voice. “In time you’ll learn to see this way.”

  “Is it important?” Her lazy reaction to my failure puzzled me.

  She shrugged her shoulders, implying no cause for concern.

  “Why should I need to learn other ways?”

  Mara smiled so the deep wrinkles about her eyes gaped like cracks in the dry earth. Leaning back, she regarded me with patient tolerance. “Your natural skill is a thing unpolished.” She waved her hands as if to catch an explanation. “It’s like rough stone. If you want to learn to control such a gift, you must look deeper. The true drabardi must interpret the meaning of what she sees. You’ve a good inner eye, but things come to you as—” She waved her hands again.
“They happen without warning. I can teach you how to catch the pictures and open the door to that inner world where true wisdom lies waiting.”

  Her strangely accented words flowed over me like the sonorous voice of a river. Captured by her promise to teach me to understand what it meant to be a seer, I turned again to look into the crystal.

  “No more today.” She wrapped black fabric around it. Seeing my disappointment, she laughed again and patted my hand. “Tomorrow we’ll look again and I’ll teach you how to use the cards. You must learn quickly, for our time together will be brief.”

  Taking my face in one gnarled, brown hand, she smoothed back my hair with the other. Her black eyes probed deep into mine. “You’ve a long road to travel, child,” she said. “Sometimes the way will be hard. There’ll be heavy burdens to carry and promises to keep. You’ll have joys too, but like the wings of the swallow, they move swiftly, and can’t be held captive. When the stones cause you to stumble, remember the path has already been chosen. The inner voice will guide your steps. Many will seek your help, for you’ll be a keeper of secrets.”

  I opened my mouth in shock—Hadn’t Mistress Evans told me this too? I began to tell Mara how I came to be travelling alone, the events that prompted my flight, but she placed a finger on my lips in the old signal for silence. “No need,” she said, nodding her head sagely. For a moment our eyes locked and I felt as if she’d looked into me and read all there was to know.

  “You think me a crazy old woman, but you’ll remember my words one day and know I’ve spoken truth. You must learn the ways of the Roma, for among my people those who walk with the spirits have an honoured place. We are just travellers, and you must join us on the journey a while. With my people you’ll be safe. By the time we reach the city you’ll have made some important decisions and be ready to move on to the next stage of pilgrimage. Sleep now.”